


Not Enough

by TextualDeviance



Series: The Raven and the Dove [5]
Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Dubcon if you have very strict standards for that, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-16
Updated: 2014-05-16
Packaged: 2018-01-25 09:36:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1644059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TextualDeviance/pseuds/TextualDeviance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After his first, brief encounter with Ragnar, Athelstan finds himself obsessed with wanting more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not Enough

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place late in 1x06, and a few weeks after [The Sin of Onan](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1566134)
> 
> Considerably more explicit than previous fics!

It had been only one time.

One time of Ragnar sitting next to him on a bench in a store room, his voice low and soft and his breathing heavy. One time of the new earl demonstrating ways in which a man could touch himself. One time of Ragnar pushing Athelstan’s hand aside and taking over for his inexpert, faltering rhythm. One time of Athelstan taking the Lord’s name in vain as he shuddered and convulsed, hot wetness coming forth from him to splatter on Ragnar’s hand, his breeches, the floor. One time of sitting there dazed, while Ragnar alternated between gently mocking him and kindly helping him tidy up and put himself back together. One time of Athelstan stumbling in a near-drunken stupor back to his room, his sense of self having been utterly, irrevocably changed.

One time was not enough.

It seemed he’d become obsessed with it, now. His vows long forgotten, every night before he fell asleep he guided himself, remembering what Ragnar had taught him, to effortless climaxes. Most mornings, he awoke erect, and relieved that need before he even relieved the pressure in his bladder. It had been more than a decade since his adolescence, but it felt like his body was changing all over again, and he was discovering it anew. Not the external changes of hair in new places and skin that erupted angrily, but internal, as if he had somehow grown a new organ in his belly where once was only a hollow space.

Yet even as his own skill grew with the constant practice, what echoed in his mind every time was the feeling of Ragnar’s hand, not his own, and it was a feeling he desperately wanted to experience again. So intense was his desire for this that he had started getting distracted when Ragnar was around, and would sometimes shiver at the smallest touch on his shoulder or arm.  It seemed preposterous that the man who once terrified and disgusted him, who had stolen him from his home and killed men he had long considered brothers, was now the subject of his most fevered needs, yet here it was. The hand that once had held a knife to his throat was the hand that had brought him the most pleasure he’d ever felt in his life. He hadn't truly felt like Ragnar's slave in several months—on the contrary, Ragnar had been showing him every courtesy and even affection. He had also made it clear to his subjects that they were to treat this member of the earl's household as respectfully as any other, and Athelstan had thus started feeling more like one of Ragnar's family than someone he owned. Still, this new feeling toward him was something else entirely, and something quite unsettling.

He tried to keep the obsession to himself—to keep it from interfering with his duties—and he certainly wanted to avoid Ragnar discovering what he’d been thinking. For all that he desired from the man, it was not something for which he could ever imagine asking. Despite the attempts at discretion, however, Ragnar noticed anyway.

“Are you well, Athelstan?” Ragnar frowned and mopped at his tunic, where Athelstan's shaking hands had deposited a few drips of ale from the pitcher he was holding. “It’s not like you to be clumsy.”

“I’m fine. Perhaps light-headed is all. I’ve not eaten quite enough today, I suppose.” Deep winter had begun to settle into Kattegat, and everyone was eating less, to save food for the long wait until spring. Food wasn't what he needed, however. "I'm sorry for the spill. If you bring it to me, I'll wash that tonight." He turned to go, to sit down in his customary chair opposite the new earl, but Ragnar grabbed his hand before he walked away. As the contact sent sparks up his arm, he grunted helplessly.

Ragnar raised an eyebrow. “And what was that?”

Athelstan’s heart raced. Lagertha was busily chiding the children for throwing food at each other and had not seen his reaction. Ragnar alone was aware. “Please,” he whispered.

Ragnar released his hand and let him go to his seat, but continued to stare at him curiously through the meal. More disturbing still, he seemed to be trying to do things to cause a reaction from his flustered servant. He slowly sucked the meat off a chicken leg, swirling his tongue around the bone. He stuffed a large chunk of carrot in his mouth whole. He ran his finger around his plate, scooping up the remaining juices and brought them to his lips. And then, to Athelstan’s shock, the edge of Ragnar’s boot traveled up the inside of his thigh under the table. He squirmed and backed away. Hiding the erection when he rose from the table would be difficult enough without Ragnar actually contacting it.

After the meal, the children were put to bed and Lagertha, complaining of a sore back, turned in early. Ragnar stayed up, staring contemplatively at the fire. After clearing the table, Athelstan bid him good night and went to his room. Just as he had taken off his shoes, however, Ragnar strode in and began removing his tunic.

Athelstan gaped. "What?"

"You asked me to bring this to you." Ragnar handed over the ale-stained garment.

"Oh! Yes. Thank you." Athelstan turned and dropped the item onto the foot of his bed. "Feel free to turn in. I'll make sure you have it by morning." He tried to keep his eyes turned down, but couldn't help sneaking glances at Ragnar's bare torso, muscles flexing under lightly furred skin. His body was crosshatched with scars, but he seemed all the more beautiful for them somehow.

Ragnar shrugged. "There's no rush. When you have the time will be fine."

"Don't worry. It will be done tonight." Athelstan insisted, his eyes still averted. "Sleep well."

Ragnar, however, didn't budge, his feet firmly planted on the floorboard under which Athelstan's neglected Scripture lay. He looked at Athelstan expectantly.

"Is there something else you need?" Athelstan asked.

“I was going to ask the same of you," Ragnar said. "You’ve been acting strangely for some time, and I think I now know why.”

Athelstan looked up, meeting his eyes, and found his soul being read by them. He blanched.

Ragnar strode around behind him. He leaned over, his breath hot on the back of Athelstan’s neck. “Would you like me to teach you more?”

Athelstan's mouth went dry and seemed incapable of forming sounds. He could only nod.

"I had been hoping so." He dipped his head, brushing a kiss against Athelstan's ear and chuckling when he shuddered. "This is going to get in the way of our lesson, though." Ragnar tugged on the edge of Athelstan's overshirt.

"Right. Uh . . ." Athelstan reached around and began fumbling with the laces on his belt.

Ragnar stilled his hands. "Let me help."

The moment his belt dropped to the floor, Athelstan's conscience came raging back and he turned. "What about Lagertha?" he bleated.

"She has not felt inclined to sex very much lately, I'm afraid. The son she carries is making things difficult for her this time. But I could go wake her and see if she's interested anyway."

"No! That's not—I wasn't thinking about her in that way." Athelstan tried to slow his heartbeat.

Ragnar stared as if Athelstan had just told him the Earth revolved around the sun. "Really? Why not? Do you not find her attractive?"

Athelstan shook his head. "I didn't mean to imply—that is, she's very attractive. Women, however—I don't know. This" he waved his hand in the air, unable to find the right word "is already incredibly strange for me. Women are something else entirely. I'm not . . . I'm not ready for that, I don't think."

"I see." The look on Ragnar's face made it clear that he didn't, actually.

"What I meant about her, though," Athelstan continued,  "is would she be upset about . . . whatever is happening here?"

Ragnar shrugged. "I doubt it. If you were a woman, she would have my balls for earrings. If you were any other man, she would wonder when I had grown soft. But you? No. You are no threat to her in any way. Did you know it was her idea to invite you to our bed in the first place?"

"Really?" Athelstan stared.

"She was also the one who pointed out my feelings for—well, that's not necessary to talk about." He flashed a lopsided smile. "Am I teaching you or not?" He snaked a hand under the edge of Athelstan's tunic and stroked up his side.

Athelstan flushed, his mind suddenly dragged back to the activities at hand, and started unfastening his trousers. In only a few moments, both sets of clothes lay puddled on the floor, leaving them naked but for Ragnar's arm ring and Athelstan's crucifix, of which he was uncomfortably aware.

Ragnar was fully hard, his foreskin stretched tightly around the swollen head, and seemed even larger than Athelstan remembered. Athelstan felt like a mere hairless, unmuscled boy in comparison, and he was suddenly shy. His knees buckling, he sat down on the bed, his hands in his lap to cover himself, and shivered.

"Are you cold?"

"No." Athelstan shook his head, but then a draft of snow-chilled air filtered in from outside. "Actually, a little."

"Let me warm you, then." Ragnar sat beside him and rested a hand on his thigh.

Athelstan stared at the hand, and shivered again.

Ragnar leaned into him, nuzzling against his face, his lips tracing the outline of Athelstan's cheekbone. "What shall I teach you, hm?" he murmured. "There are many, many things we could do. Would you like to learn something different?" He reached around to Athelstan's back and trailed down his spine to where the curve of his rump began. His fingertips brushed the top of the cleft and one began heading down farther.

Athelstan squirmed involuntarily. He was only beginning to understand what to do with one neglected part of his body. The idea that anything else—much less that area—could be involved was so far out of his mind that he wondered for a moment if he were actually dreaming. He swallowed hard and shook his head. "I don't think  . . ."

Ragnar moved his hand back up. "Fair enough. That's something you might like someday, though. I wouldn't know myself, but I have heard some men enjoy that. Lagertha does sometimes."

"Enjoy what?" Athelstan frowned.

Ragnar laughed. "You _do_ have a lot to learn, my poor priest." He began gently massaging the back of Athelstan's neck. "Let's go back to the beginning, then."

Athelstan closed his eyes and heaved a calming breath. The hand on his neck felt fantastic, soothing his work-sore and tense muscles. After a while, his trembling even stopped, and he found himself leaning into Ragnar's body.

"Have you been practicing what I taught you?" Ragnar's beard tickled his ear.

"Yes. A lot, actually." He giggled self-consciously.

"Good. Why don't you show me how skilled you've become, then?"

An almost queasy flutter ran through his belly, and Athelstan reached for himself.

Ragnar caught his hand halfway. "No." He drew the hand toward him, and placed it on his own cock.

"Oh!" Athelstan gasped, then his hand, seemingly of its own accord, tightened, closing around the hot, silky flesh. As he settled into the feeling, he noted that Ragnar was indeed a little larger, and he had more hair to navigate around, but otherwise, all his compulsive habit of late had developed a muscle memory in his arm and hand. Strange and thrilling as it was to be doing this to someone else—to _Ragnar_ —the motion was now familiar.

Ragnar leaned back, propping himself on his elbows, and his eyes fell closed. A warm, euphoric smile painted his face and he sighed.

Encouraged by Ragnar's evident pleasure, Athelstan continued, growing more confident and even bold in his motions. He brought his other hand into play, caressing Ragnar's tightening sack, and swirled a thumb under the edge of his foreskin, spreading the thick honey that oozed from the tip, making it even easier for the skin to slip over and back with each stroke. His arms weakening, Ragnar fell back further, splaying across the bed, and pulled Athelstan down with him.

Squirming around to keep a useful angle, Athelstan lay on his side, his head resting on Ragnar's shoulder, a thigh draped over his, and his own cock pressed hard against Ragnar's hip. Ragnar brought a hand to his head, petting and stroking his hair.

Athelstan felt drunk and dizzy, his own body reacting as if it were on the receiving end of the fevered caresses, his cock leaping and swelling each time a growling moan escaped Ragnar's throat. As Ragnar's hips began to jerk, so did his own. He tried to hold back, to wait for his earl's pleasure to come first, but his body betrayed him. Muffling his cries in the soft fur of Ragnar's chest, he bucked frantically, the friction against Ragnar's skin soon easing with the flood that jetted from him. In the wild moment, an instinct he didn't understand opened his mouth. He reached for the nipple that had been standing firm against his cheek, and suckled it deeply.

Ragnar made a noise like an angry bull. He clutched at Athelstan's curls, getting a handful of them and twisting. The slight pain did nothing to dampen the ardor—it even added to it—and Athelstan redoubled his efforts, wanting Ragnar to feel every bit as good as he was feeling now. He didn't have to wait long. As he scraped his teeth over the tip of the bud, Ragnar's body heaved. His cock became alive in Athelstan's hand, spilling what seemed like endless quantities over their flushed skin, and he cried out, seeming not to care if everyone for leagues around heard.

After several moments, once he had caught his breath, Ragnar whispered raggedly. "Why did you do that? Even Lagertha has never done that to me. How did you think of it?"

"I don't know." Athelstan stared, his vision still out of focus. "I . . . I needed something in my mouth."

Ragnar laughed giddily. "Well, I could have offered something else to put there." He tensed his body, making his softening cock leap, and wriggled his eyebrows significantly.

Athelstan flushed. He would never have thought of it on his own, but now that the concept was there, it seemed like a good one. Actually, given how he felt, nearly anything Ragnar could have suggested, including whatever mysterious act might involve his backside, would've seemed wonderful. For now, however, he was spent, and Ragnar was, too. Reaching to his other side, at the foot of the bed, Ragnar plucked up his soiled tunic and began clearing away the mess they had made.

"Oh." Athelstan winced.

"What? You were going to wash it anyway, were you not? Just boil it a little longer."

"Right." Athelstan began to sit up, though he wasn't sure at first if his muscles were capable of the burden.

Ragnar's eyes narrowed in the way they did when he had a clever idea. "Actually, don't wash it."

"Sorry?"

"You can wash it if you like, I imagine. But you don't need to give it back. Keep it." He handed over the now-sticky garment.

Athelstan took it, spreading the fabric across his bare thighs. "Are you certain? Why?"

Ragnar smiled warmly at him. "When I am away from Lagertha, I take something of hers with me, and she keeps something of mine. The familiar smells keep us happy on those long nights. Perhaps that might be the same for you. I cannot stay here and sleep in your bed, but you could keep me nearby this way. If you want to remember me so, that is."

Athelstan brought the tunic to his face. Indeed, the scents—the spilled ale, a few drips of chicken grease, and the several different scents of Ragnar's body—instantly brought him to mind. "I'd like that. Thank you."

"All I ask is that you don't wear it. I don't think of you as a slave anymore—you know that—but the rest of the village, well, they would be . . . confused if the earl's servant suddenly started wearing his clothes."

Athelstan sighed, though not unhappily. "I understand."

In a few moments, Ragnar was dressed again, if sans tunic, and Athelstan was in his night clothes and under his blankets, a welcome warmth as the glow of passion left him and was replaced by the chill in the air.

"Ragnar," Athelstan called to him just before he left.

"Hm?"

"Is this . . . will we do this again?"

"Do you want to? I don't want you to feel like I expect this of you. This isn't part of your duties. I will only do what you want me to. But for my part, I would like it."

Athelstan shivered and snuggled down further into his bed. "I would, too."

"That's settled then. I'm glad. For now, I need to join my wife, however, so good night."

"And to you."

Ragnar glanced over his shoulder once as he left, favoring Athelstan with an almost childlike smile, and then disappeared into the shadows.

As he rolled over, expecting sleep to come quickly with his exhaustion, Athelstan noticed his body apparently had other ideas.

"Really?" He scolded his re-stiffening cock. But he reached for it anyway, and with his other hand, brought the tunic close to his face.

As the scent of their tryst filled his mind, and his pleasure rose, Athelstan laughed lightly. One time had certainly not been enough, and apparently, two times weren't, either. 


End file.
